Corporis
by Lyralamora
Summary: Both reaching an impasse in their studies, they seek to help each other. Thrown together by coincidence, or perhaps such a thing does not exist? This is a story of the search for light, in the dark swamp of ignorance. And perhaps for something more.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters, places and names are the property of J.K. Rowling. _

_A/N: This is a story in three parts, placed during the events of The Half Blood Prince. Though it will not interfere much with the actual plot, I have written with my own story in mind, therefore a slight AU may occur. _

CORPORIS

Chapter One – Days of Autumn

I

_September_

Hermione Granger thought she might as well hunt down that book herself, for the librarian had her work cut out for her, tending to the needs of students less familiar with the place than herself, and besides, she was young, and relatively limber, making it far easier for her to use a ladder, though perhaps not as easy as it ought to have been. The library would close soon; she could hear the steady ticking of the clock, counting down her minutes, like a warning, musical when the hour struck, irreversible as the last note fell. Besides, the book, she had seen it before, was on the top shelf. Much better then, to take action herself.

If Ron, or indeed Harry, had been here, he could have taken care of it, both of them having far out-grown her in hight. But as Ron had so vehemently argued, there was not much work to be done. Not at a Saturday evening at the start of term. And so they had left her to it rather early on. It would seem he regarded it as a personal insult that she would prefer books to him. But there was a peace here, a mandatory silence, into which she could withdraw. A trait few found commendable, but as danger loomed ever closer, nothing worked as soothingly on her nerves as reading, in the dampened light of the library, hidden from view by the ample shelves.

Looking out, she saw; it was almost dark already, the autumn descending on them quickly, and with it, the cold. It somehow appeared more substantial this year, not carrying its customary freshness, but rather more oppressing, as being locked in a dark room, the only exit being fleeing the country. Standing by the window, a solemnity settled, with the notion, so strong, that something awful was about to happen. Her powerful skill of deduction being at work once again. The rain tapped in a comforting rhythm against the sill, the noise of which completely obscured the sound of her feet crossing the floor, setting out to retrieve the book.

_Corporis_ – _substance and non-substance_, a basic theory, she could grasp the most elementary bit, but then it had been mentioned; the paradox of being and not-being at the very same time, and she had, surprisingly, unusually, been stuck. And so a book, surely a book must help. Passing by the shelves, she noticed, thought not particularly cared, that most of the work-desks where empty, their green lights distinguished, thought some had decided on wasting good wax and left their candle to burn, to the benefit of nobody, except perhaps a house-elf that would thrill at the added work-load. She scoffed, out loud, in indignation. But seeing as there was no-one here, that hardly mattered. She could hear the sounds of muttering, of pages being turned, but in this wast library she was as good as alone.

The subject of disappearance and reappearance, both in terms of animals and objects, had been granted it's very own section, not just a shelf, but three, stacked to the brim as it where. It was, of course, at the very top – she could see it now – thick, no doubt heavy, smelling of dust and old parchment, as any old book ought to. And there, next to it, was one on transmigration. And next to that one – but she would have to curtail herself. One at a time had always been a good motto, in all aspects of life. The golden mean, and so forth.

"Musing amongst the shelves?"

A pale face, made paler still by the dampened light, as though it shone out to her from between the shelves. Or perhaps it was simply the surprise of seeing him here, not one to waste to much of his precious time in the library; Draco Malfoy, enemy of the muggle-born, and all who wanted to read in peace. Or indeed muse amongst the dusty old books.

"I prefer books to men. Certain men, at least."

The smile was that of a wolf. Of course, that was impossible. And yet, it was the first thing that came to mind as his lips curled upwards in a predatory fashion. Leaning nonchalantly against a shelf, he did not give the impression of 'being on his way', and so she could only conclude (there it was again, those deduction skills, sharp as a knife), that he had settled there for the moment, as a raven, or indeed peacock, on it's perch, to taunt her. Had he really nothing better to do?

"And that's why you're here alone I assume. Weasly being no match to … disappearance and reappearance... I see."

As he leaned backwards to appraise the section-name, she could not help but admire his flexibility. At least someone took the care to work out. But no matter, the sooner she got the book, the sooner she could get away from his infuriating presence. Furthermore, she could hear her precious minutes tick away, as she dallied her time away with this banter.

"Please leave, Malfoy," was her only comment. Short, to the point, and not to be misunderstood, as she turned, striding forth to collect the ladder, a bulky, wooden thing, hoping beyond hope that it was not so heavy. She dreaded the thought of a laborious struggle with a piece of furniture in his presence. But of course it was heavy, she knew it was heavy. There was always the tempting option of charming the ladder, and then no inelegant struggle was needed. But as with the corridors, magic was forbidden, as not to harm the books. The mental health and dignity of their students, did not seem to matter to the school. If she should ever be head-mistress, she would see to that. No, in fact, she would see to it that scum like Malfoy wasn't let in. Of course that would make her just as bad as the people she was opposing. But no matter, she felt entitled to a little political in-correctness as she put her weight to the ladder, pushing it across the floor.

"And what are you doing here anyway. Can't find any first-years to terrify, so you've come to annoy those who work instead."

As she said it, though it was meant as no more than an obnoxious comment, it occurred to her that it was indeed surprising. Few chose reading as their Saturday night-time activity. And for Malfoy, who spent little to no time studying (being of the infuriating ability to know without working for it), it seemed almost indecent.

"Believe it or not, Granger, I did not surrender my prefect-badge as to dally away the time, no doubt as your friends are doing." He's grin shifted into a more sombre expression. But there did seem to be a hint of enthusiasm underlying it; she found the thought alarming. "There's something coming, and we both know it. So if you would be so kind as to fetch me a book while your up there. Yes, the one on transmigration, if you'd be so kind."

His voice sounded normal, and she could not quite believe the indifferent way in which he addressed the matter. The fact that he spoke of it at all, was rather unsettling, but they might one day have to face each other off in a more direct way than banter, and the fact that this did not seem to bother him, spoke of a coldness hitherto unseen.

She had frozen on the ladder, she did not notice until now, and upon looking down, glancing at him by chance, she saw that his eyes where not directed at his book, but was rather fixed on something lower down, though she could not comprehend what it was. His expression had not changed, and so she hurried, resuming her task of climbing to the top of the ladder.

Upon listening, she could hear naught but the clock, time slipping away at it's steady pace, and the breathing of the boy, or was it man, underneath her. The rustling of pages, and scratching of quills had died down, and it occurred to her; they might be completely alone. And if they should get locked in, what a prospect! Furthermore, it would not seem that she would get her book after all. Standing on the topmost step, tiptoeing dangerously, her fingertips where mere inches away. She might have retrieved it with a summoning spell, how easy it all would have been. But the risk of being banned from the library was not an option.

The sound of the doors closing, rang through the room with extraordinary vigour, cutting the silence like a knife, as if a sound could be inconsiderate, brutish, indifferent. And then it was only his breath, the clock, the sound of hard rain falling in ever greater quantities.

"Will you hurry up, I have things to do, and they do not include detention."

"You shouldn't have given up your prefect-duties then," she countered. It was all she could think of, and yet the quip lost some of it's edge, by the panting quality in her voice; it sounded thin, almost feeble, almost as if it where very far away.

"You are too short, just summon it."

"Why can't you do it?"

She loathed asking for his help, but this was ridiculous. And if he should get caught, all the better. He accepted, thought not in good grace, but with a rather theatrical sight. If he was not set on being a death-eater, there might be a place for him on the stage. He would make an excellent Faust. She sniggered at the thought.

"You viscous harpy. I know your plan," Malfoy sneered, completely misinterpreting her smile, though not her intention.

"Fine, I'll just leave them then."

She was perhaps not entirely without a dramatic streak either. With a vision of herself turning from the shelf, gracefully stepping down, she'd forgotten to account for the rather confined space. There was a crash, a tumble, an inelegant whimper, and then the swooping sensation of a fall, wonderful in it's way, if not for the knowledge of imminent pain. Strange then, that it did not occur.

Again, there was the sounds of rain, of breathing, of the clock, striking eight at last, the first tone reverberating through the room. She could feel herself shrink, like some small bird, curling together, as if that could save her from the second ring; it was imminent, detrimental, or at least occurred as such, while resting in the arms of her nemesis. It was wrong, everything was wrong, and for all of it to come crashing down (figuratively speaking) at once, did seem so unfair, that a major conspiracy did not seem unlikely.

Of course, it did not really matter at all. Time trickled past, as it always would, not concerning itself with closing hours of any sort. But to her mind, in that moment, her fatal error; the falling off the ladder, and the finality of the hour, seemed one and the same.

Because he had, in fact, this narcissistic and cruel little boy, stepped forth in a moment of chivalry, and caught her. The moment was rife with symbolism, and she could not help but consider them in passing, as the found herself resting, ironically safe, in his arms. She also could not help but notice that her skirt had slid up.

But Draco Malfoy was no longer an insolent schoolboy. He was a danger. Pride was naught more than a triviality. There was life, and there was death, justice, freedom; those where her concerns, and yet, this; her being caught up in his (albeit not very enthusiastic embrace), would seem like the end of the world, and reduce her to this frightened little creature.

His breath was warm. She had imagined it to be frosty. It did not seem in accordance to his suave nonchalance, this very human thing; a warm, humid breath stroking, light as a kiss, against her cheek. She blushed. He did not seem bothered, but then, as previously noted, he was rather cold. Yet, thankfully, mercifully, he did not speak as he placed her, rather carefully, on the ground.

"Thank you."

"If I'd let you fall, they would no doubt have charged me with something. Deliberate harm of a mud-"

"That's enough!"

"Do not interrupt me!"

"Do not call me a you-know-what."

And there it was again, that frail, distant quality to her voice, as though a quarrel was more than she could bear. But it would seem that Malfoy had decided to end the fun. Lifting his wand, she was about to grab for her own, before realising that he was in fact retrieving the books. Both of them.

As Madame Pince came storming out from behind a shelf, where she'd no doubt been lurking, yelling of abuse, disregard of rules, ten points from Slytherin, and so forth, Hermione did not quite know what to make of it, as he handed her the book, casually, as though it was the most natural of things.

Later on, in the dark confines of her bedroom, she decided he must not have thought about it, being distracted by Madame Pince. Or else perhaps he thought it would look better in her eyes, to help the most avid user of the library. Yes, that must be it, that must be why, and a comforting notion indeed, to know that it would not make the librarian the least bit lenient. The room resounded of the heavy breathing from those who slept, and the rain, that persisted through the night.

II

_October_

When he read, his tended to lean on his elbows, of which he had his shirtsleeves brought up to. His hair would sometimes fall in disarray after a long session, and if he encountered something interesting, his lips would move to make out the words that formed inside that blond head of his.

_...The act of disappearance is, one must note, not of the same quality as that of obliteration, which is the irreversible annihilation of matter. Nor is it like transformation, that which changes the matter and... _

There he was again, reading, studying, and making her confused, distracted, not to mention suspicious; it was not the subjects that he was reading. But being a sixth year, he had access to all the books he could want, and that included the restricted section, and so she had no right to inspect his reading-material, though she was made restless with curiosity and need to know; just what could hold Malfoy's attention for so long. Weeks, it had been.

_...form, in short, quality of one object with clear boundaries, into another. The state between disappearance and reappearance is a none-state, unlike dying, which is not a state at all. This must be understood, if one is to successfully master the technique... _

He brought his hand to his forehead, massaging a temple, as though he had a headache. There where rings under his eyes, not strong, but prominent enough for her to see across the room, bearing evidence of someone who read extensively and with poor lighti.

_...which is not a state at all. This must be understood, if one is to successfully master the technique. It has been compared to the act of suspended animation, otherwise known as petrification; this is a common fallacy... _

He had skipped dinner three times this week, he looked better with his hair a little unkempt, it softened his features, what could he possibly want with a book on transmigration? It must be much too complicated for him. 

_...not of the same quality as that of obliteration, which is the irreversible annihilation of matter..._

Annihilation of matter, was that his goal? It was certainly not school-work that occupied him. Was it actually possible that he was working towards her destruction with such vigour, mere meters from where she sat. Such absurdity, as if it was all a game.

_...this is a common fallacy..._

There was no use, she surrendered. The book, though interesting, and also indeed instructive, had the annoying habit, possessed by many ninteenth-century professors, of categorically stating what everything was not, before commencing with the actual matter of interest, and thus she had to fight past page after page of basically drivel, in order to get to grips with the subject at hand. She had brushed her hand through her hair so many times now, it must no doubt stand on end, and her back ached; the chairs not at all suited for long reading-sessions, ironically enough.

His grey lashes cast grey shadows, his skin paler than before, perhaps due to the seemingly perpetual darkness outside. Transmigration, he was reading a book on transmigration. When first encountering the expression, she'd been surprised to find it mentioned in a wizarding-book, believing the notion to be a muggle one. Only upon further reading did she realize it was a branch within transfiguration, though not a corporal one, but rather something deeper; it all sounded rather conspicuous to her ears. Furthermore, she could not grasp it's significance. It was not relevant during their lessons, and she failed to see how it could be put to more sinister uses.

She had told Harry none of this. With the number of theories he produced, his head might well explode if he ever caught wind of it. As it was, he was becoming tiresome. Malfoy was no doubt up to something, but for that something to be the resuming of his father's duties, she very much doubted. He would become a death-eater in due time, but at sixteen the notion was simply too ridiculous.

And so she sat there, musing, no longer reading, but not gathering her things so she might leave either. She would not, no matter how childish it sounded, give evidence of her quick surrender. She always sat for hours when she read, and this display of inconsistency would do little for her reputation as a bookworm, a title she was proud to claim. Furthermore, she would not leave before him, lest it appear he was the harder worker. She would simply need to press on. And thus she resumed her reading.

She would resume, she would simply resume, there was nothing to it.

… _We can thus divide corporal existence into three different states of being: that which is evident and perceptional , that which is hidden and inperceptional, i.e none-state, and the transgression period between the two, also called Corporis... _

III

_November_

With the unhappy prospect of another Slug Club meeting this eve, and consequently Ron's fowl mood, Hermione had sought refuge in the library, wandering the selves, looking for something to read; something light and amusing; pleasure-reading. She recalled Harry's dumbfounded expression at this word. This thought brought to her attention the matter of a certain Prince.

It was irritating, infuriating beyond belief, this trust, as if history had taught him nothing, that Harry placed in this book. Throwing caution to the wind as usual, and people fancied him clever. She snorted, turning the corner into the restricted section, and noticing; first an unpleasant drop of the stomach, then the pounding, as if her treacherous heart wished to escape it's confines and flee the premises; it could only be Draco Malfoy.

Here, yet again. How many weeks had she spotted him over the brim of her books, whilst he leaned over his own. But the newly acquired knowledge did little for his appearance. His pale cheeks, now seemingly having lost all it's colour, or rather adapted a yellowish hue, as of that of someone ill.

"You look sick," she mumbled. As soon as the words where out, she could not grasp why she'd spoken them in the first place. Why would she willingly place herself in his line of fire. And furthermore, why did she notice the way he looked?

"Why, thank you. And may I say, likewise."

Though his words where that of light-hearted banter, his voice had a cruel streak to it. She turned to leave. Then he spoke.

"Did you enjoy your book? I found it a little trite, myself. Much too old-fashioned, just theory and no praxis."

"Have you read it?"

She could not help asking, the surprise deterring her determination.

"Indeed, or I would hardly have asked."

"Well, I liked it. Besides, one need to grasp the theory before applying it, and we haven't gotten to that yet, so it doesn't really matter."

She shrugged, and made to leave yet again, but was once more held back, this time by the sight of Cormac, stepping out from behind a shelf. So this was to be her choice; either suffering Malfoy's abuse or McLaggen's relentless flirting.

"Why did you read it?"

He smiled that woolf-smile of his, looking as though he was glad she's asked. Yet he yielded no answers.

"None of your business Granger."

"Fine then. But how did you like it, did you find it helpful?"

"Why do you want to know?"

She had only asked to stall time, but by the suspicious narrowing of his eyes, she realized she might have asked a little too much.

"No reason," she singsonged, as though that would not make him all the more suspicious.

"Really."

It wasn't a question. Furthermore, Cormac was homing in, coming ever closer to their 'hideout'. She took a decision then, spontaneously, some would say foolishly; she sat down.

"Of course Landin is considered the authority, I found Dilligans book quite instructive. That was the one McGonogol recommended. Have you read it?"

He seemed almost shocked by her foolhardiness, and yet, although she could not conceive why, he seemed eager to discuss the subject. She suspected Crab and Goyle did not make great conversation. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes fixed, strands of hair adorning his forehead. In the dim light his eyes looked black. She noticed he had delicate hands, a seekers hands, well-groomed and no doubt soft.

"Yes, I have. Or rather, I'm reading it at the moment. But the same problem occurs."

And she who had always, upon looking at that delicate blond hair, thought him a fool.

"How so?"

"Well, their both concerned with the human form. But what about objects?"

"They are less complicated. If you have mastered the art of disappearing and reappearing, your mindset will be ready for something as comparatively small as disappearing an object. Of course, we take it the other way around now, but still, I don't think Landin would have thought that to disappear a, let's say cup, was of very great importance."

While talking, she listened for a sound, a footstep, but McClaggen seemed to have stopped for the moment. Perhaps there was another way around, and she could avoid them both. But it was too late now, she was sitting, she was here, she was discussing transformation of matter with Draco Malfoy.

"That's not true of all objects though. You are thinking of those with fixed boundaries. But how does the mechanism of those with a fleeting boundary work? That is a matter neither speak of."

They where so close she could hear his breath, almost taste it. It was deep, steady, his chest rising and falling like the lazy wave of a still ocean.

"Like a port-key?"

Odd it was, and yet, satisfactory. To think, they where talking, conversing, in a free manner, pure of insult.

"Something like that."

"I have a book about it somewhere," she said, shaking her bag, "but port-keyes had not been invented in Landin's time. A fleeting boundary..." to be sure, she did not know, she had never even contemplated it. Having once been accused of a limited mind, this was rather disturbing to her; how had she been able to not conceive of this problem? "Perhaps you need to work with the understanding that there is a prototype-"

There was thudding, as that of big, ungraceful feet stomping their way. She was accustomed to the sound, Ron made it all the time. And then he was there, that silly hair swept to one side as if he'd just dismounted his broom, the lion of Griffyndoor emblazoned across his chest, sporting a vacant expression. That was, until he saw her.

"Hermione!"

His exclamation, though she knew it was coming, startled her. She looked to Malfoy, who, surprisingly, meet her eyes. It must he nerves, there could be no other explanation for the little swoop, not wholly uncomfortable, that her stomach made.

"Excuse me, this is a library. Would you please keep quiet."

Cormac's face lost some of it's charm as it transformed from delight to anger.

"No Slytherin orders me around. Is he bothering you? That's ten points."

She braced herself for a yell of indignation, perhaps even a fight. But Malfoy, not one to let his suave mask fall, leant back as if in utter indifference.

"Whatever."

"Come on, Hermione."

It reminded her rather like a master, addressing his dog, the way he spoke to her. The insensible brute! Yet what was there to be done? She could hardly chose to stay with Malfoy in front of a fellow Gryffindoor, no matter how annoying.

Draco was still sporting an expression of indifference as she rose. Rummaging through her bag, she soon found it; a book, newer than the others, perhaps it would contain some information as to what they'd been discussing.

"Here," she held it in front of him as an offering. Perhaps as a way of excusing McLaggen, or else to show her appreciation of their conversation. To be sure, they where few and far between. He accepted with good grace, and as his hand grasp around it, his fingertips brushed past the back of her hand. Like a kiss, she thought, like the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp, and there it was again, that feeling of solemnity, looking upon him, and feeling with such certainty, that something awful was about to happen. Or perhaps it already had.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two – Days of Winter

I

_December_

The common-room was a forlorn sight, the great hall sadder still. Hogwars was not complete without it's inhabitants; now, little more than a pile of stone, beautifully put together.

The party; subject to much gossip, anticipated with enthusiasm, or envy, depending on whether one was invited or not. Though Hermione had told no one, the words 'Slughorn's party', had been superseded with a tingling sensation in her stomach. She had so looked forward to a night of chatter, of drinks, of the talking to people who did not meet her with a certain prejudice, but to be herself; to talk, actually talk with people and get a proper reply. And best of all, that Ron had consented to accompany her. She had not been entirely certain as to what she hoped to derive from the evening, other than to enjoy herself without his retribution; the jealousy of not being included.

In retrospect, it seemed almost comical, the hopes, the silly little fantasies of what the night would bring. And then, in reality; it was McLaggon accosting her under the mistletoe, Harry disappearing as soon as he showed, and Ron – was it a betrayal? She certainly chose to consider it so; his sudden coldness, and then, without warning, this relationship, (whatever that meant) with Lavender Brown. Of course, she had not been entirely certain that she wanted it. It was awkward admitting to it, they had been friends to long. All the worse then, his betrayal. Could he not see that she needed it, for things to go well just this once?

She had not been invited to the Burrow. It was hardly a surprise, and yet it stung. She might have expected Ginny to invite her along, but of course, they all thought she was going to her parents, though no one had taken the effort of asking. Would that she could come with them, Australia seemed perfect. In fact, anywhere that was not here. Appraising the empty common-room, it struck her; she had never celebrated Christmas alone.

The house-elves had spared no expense; to think, all these decorations, the enormous tree adorned with icicles, the common-room sumptuously decorated; it was all for her. And of course, it was not all bad. Apparition-lessons would commence shortly after the holiday, and so she really should work. In fact, it was just as well they had not invited her, thus saving her from the embarrassment of saying no. If she was the only student left, would they cancel Christmas lunch, she wondered, would they think her the only one who did not have anybody? Of course, they all wanted to spend time with their families, worried as they all where. Ironic then, that she, who in fact had something very real to dread, was alone. But no matter, she would press on, she always did.

An added advantage was that the library would be empty; she could sit wherever she wanted, her books and papers spread out, without consideration. Nevertheless, there was an air of nostalgia, of something so very sad, and yet, beautiful in its way; the silence. Was this joy? Or was it a mark of tragedy, that this too, reading undisturbed, could be considered happiness?

But reading would have to wait, as she made her way through the quiet corridors, down staircase after staircase, all having been decorated during the night, to the great hall to take her breakfast.

Filtch shuffled by with a duster, his back slumped; he was rather old, after all. It would seem this was the destiny of all Hogwarts employees; loneliness, in servitude to the school. They hardly ever left it, only meeting someone new when down in Hogsmead. As far as she knew, none of them where married. But they all seemed contented, satisfied in their solitude; why should she not be?

But upon crossing the threshold to the great hall, she saw that she was not alone. The sensation of relief that flowed through her, proved that all her arguments had been for naught; she did not want to be alone any more. It made it all the worse upon discovering who it was; that solitary figure at the long table, made lonelier still by the wall of teachers facing them from the other side; united in a way, making an institution, in which they where not included.

It really shouldn't come as a surprise, circumstances conspiring as they did. He was leaning over a book, seemingly too caught up to eat, his toast scattered on his plate, an owl nibbling at it while waiting for him to fetch his post; it was Draco Malfoy.

She had heard rumours of his attendance at the party, though she had not seen him herself. His recent attitude had made this surprising news. One rarely saw him out and about these days, if one did not count the library. She saw him often enough, and had been a witness to his downfall, if that was the way to put it. But he seemed calmer now, his skin not so sallow, his eyes alight with enthusiasm; eyes that meet hers as she crossed the hall to her own table.

Even so, he seemed frail, always diminishing from one day to the next. His eyes, not just darker, not just grey, as they looked upon her, and when he did, what did he think? It would be wrong, to say it did not matter. There was a war looming, and both on them on opposite sides, as they sat now, on either end of the hall. He, who had always been so steadfast in his revulsion, had changed; there could no longer be any doubt, even his eyes now carried an expression she could not interpret, and so she shifted her gaze, to look upon the marmalade.

It was a curious situation, the two of them at either end, the teachers as spectators, observing their behaviour with fascination. She tried not to look in his direction, but focused on the food, on the paper in her hand; the headlines not very interesting.

Then, a gentle cough, and she looked up, meeting his eyes once more, finding them much closer than before. He was standing there, right in front of her, or rather, on the other side of the table, surveying her breakfast-spread, her paper, herself. Absurd, he was, utterly absurd, she though as he sat down without asking.

"Finished with that paper?"

"It doesn't say much. The interesting news is censored."

Then she recalled; perhaps that was not the right thing to say? But he merely shrugged, reaching for the jam. As she handed him the coffie-mug, she realized she was sharing a meal with Malfoy; her long-time enemy. Yet there where no real strong feelings of approbation. She though she could glimpse a smile flutter across the headmasters lips, but then he nearly always smiled; he might not have noticed them at all.

"So, you're staying for the holiday too?" she asked, the attempt at conversing making her feel silly.

"Evidently."

But then, after a sip of juice:

"Weasly did not ask you along this year?"

"Oh, I need to use the library."

"They don't have books where he lives?"

"Not the ones I need," she said, sidestepping the potential argument. It would seem that Malfoy had not managed to make up his mind as to what he was doing there; sharing a meal or quarrelling. Or perhaps this easy banter would ease his conscience, while having his food contaminated by a mud-blood.

"It is an impressive collection," he conceded. "I have finished your book, I will return it later."

"What did you think of it?"

"Please, Hermione!"

Her name, her name in his mouth, the lips that shaped themselves around the sound, the strain of his muscles, working for her, evidence that she had a place, somewhere, in his mind; she wondered, did he know, did he consider this at all?

"It is too early to discuss books. Or at least matter-transformation. Something lighter, if you please."

His manners where, if he wanted, impeccable. For the first time his 'superior' breeding made way to the surface, making itself visible through the form of eloquence.

"Well then, how about apparition-lessons? You will take them, I assume?"

"Of course," he nodded with a sudden smile, probably being brought on by her inability to stay away from the subject. "Though this is something that can't be learnt entirely through books."

"I _have_ tried. Besides, knowing the theory in any subject, is always helpful."

"If one has the time, but who does? There are so many subjects, so much we pass through in a semester. If one where to know the theory behind everything, there wouldn't be any time left at all."

This might be directed at her, he knew, after all, the amount of hours she spent in the library every day. But that was only because he spent them to.

"I think students should prioritize school," she said, rather testily. Her reaction made him smile once again.

"I would expect nothing less of you."

"So all those hours you're spending in the library, that is merely leisure?"

To this he made no reply, but rather commenced on his toast. He seemed to have no qualms about eating in her presence, despite the rather intimate nature of the act. She saw no reason to dally either, and resumed her own meal, and thus they ate in a silence she could only describe as companionable. He ate carefully and with deliberation, swallowing before every new bite, his slender fingers lifting his glass with care, it all seemed so effortless, making her feel rather self-conscious, though not uncomfortable.

As the last teachers left the hall, Hermione and Malfoy finished up as well. As he rose, pushing the chair out behind him, she wondered, in a fit of silly superstition; would they know, the other Gryffindoors, that he had sat there, on that chair, that it was his hands who'd left it just so? They would not even consider it possible. But she would know that the angle, the indentation in the pillow, they where all traces of him.

As they entered the hall beyond, she expected them to part, him for the cellar, her for the marble staircase. But it was not so. He halted, looking hesitant, almost shy in his jagged movements, before resolutely turning towards her. There seemed a trace of fierceness in his face as he spoke.

"Would you want that book now?"

"I suppose."

"Well, come along then."

And so he turned towards the stairs, motioning her to follow.

Hermione had never been the the Slytherin common-room. Harry and Ron had been there, of course. And she knew well where it where, due to the Marauders Map and illicit night-time activities. And so Malfoy did not really reveal anything as he escorted her through the labyrinth of corridors, towards his home. But still, this was a symbolic act, a lowering of defences, and, she liked to think, an acceptance. Perhaps not of her friendship or even regard, but respect. And for the life of her, she could not think what had brought it on.

He did not seem awkward, but once his eyes met hers, he looked away swiftly, leaving her with jitters she was not quite able to identify. All this, whatever it was; their budding tolerance, would once again make them strangers, no longer the old animosity of childhood, but something else, though she did not know what. This would require a clarity of purpose that she did not feel she possessed, and any attempt at small-talk made her embarrassed. They walked in silence.

Reaching the common-room, she did not know if she would be welcome inside, and so she turned her head away in respect, even though the password resounded clearly in the silent corridor.

"Are you coming?" he demanded, a little impatient it would seem, as he stepped inside. She followed, but so did the sensation of impropriety, and she contented herself with staring down at the carpet, grey, only sensing the greenish hue that lit the room. She heard his steps, muffled by the rug, as he walked towards his dormitory, only hesitating for a moment before crossing the threshold, letting the door close behind him.

The time spanned, expanded, lasted beyond what she would have thought necessary. At last she looked up, surveying the room, it's dark colours and cold light. Yet it seemed the house-elves had made a valiant attempt at making this a cheery place, having decorated it in much the same way as her own common-room. Letting her fingertips trace across the edge of a sofa, fumbling the soft fabric of it's pillow, she suddenly had the strange notion of making her mark, as he had on their table. It needed only be a small one, unnoticed and inconsequential, but there, all the same. Reaching inside her robes, she extracted a quill – she always carried one – and discarded it on a table; a feather, that was all that would linger of her here, in this place. As it stilled, seemingly adapting it's role, Malfoy returned, and with him, her book.

She thanked him hastily, while accepting it, this time being careful not to touch his hand. His expression was unreadable, and, as she turned and left, she found she'd quite given it up, the notion of ever understanding him. This transformation, it was as if she could no longer recall all his cruelties. They where numerous, and some of them unforgivable. And yet, the warmth that lingered on the book was that of any human being; it was not cold, it was not unwelcome.

II

_January_

This must surely be the coldest day of the year. Outside the country was white, greying, darkening swiftly. The laughter was distant, somewhat mechanical when heard through a window, as if the joy of others where nothing but a distraction. With the resumption of lessons, there also came students, and she found she's missed the bustling crowd, however distracting.

She had not spoken to Malfoy since the return of their class-mates. It was a welcome respite, his presence constantly provoking her suspicions. In the end she even exhausted herself with endless musings. Even so, whenever she sat in the great hall, now echoing with chatter, she could not help but consider their days of solitude and conversations; that they had once, not so long ago, dined opposite of one another in that very hall. And should they ever tell anyone, they would not be believed.

Homework finished early it was tempting to step outside for a moment, the laughter now more beckoning than annoying. But _they_ must be there; Ron and Lavender, and with this though, things started to darken again.

She looked forward, not to capturing a love interest of her own, but to be rid of it, to be free. At the moment it seemed nothing more than an unproductive distraction, causing nothing but grief. No, much better than, to be free and unencumbered. Sorting through her bag, she found the book she was looking for, lighting the candle with a flick of her wand, no longer needing to speak the words. The sun was already setting.

She knew he must be there somewhere, working on whatever it was. Harry's news, delivered with such fervour, had failed to impress her, though it left a bitter after-taste. But it had nothing to do with the spell of complacency woven between them. It was simply that she did not find it at all likely. Even so, there where no doubt that Malfoy was up to something, only meters away.

Whatever it was, it did not go well. She could hear every sigh, every frustrated moan, the rustling of his shirt as he dragged his hands through his hair, that was now properly unkempt, his bangs hanging down in his face. It was worrisome. It was also annoying, his sounds making a constant distraction from her work, even more intrusive than the laughter. After yet another thirty minutes had passed like this, she rose.

He did not even look up as she rounded the shelf. She could see that he was reading Landin's _Corporis _once again. How many times had he pored over it, and yet still it made no sense.

"Perhaps it is better to wait," she muttered softly, "Maybe after you've learned apparition, it will seem more obvious."

Disentangling his hands from his hair, he looked at her with a shadow of his old disdain.

"And why is that Granger."

"Being in that between-space, to really experience it, perhaps that will induce understanding?"

She was merely grasping for an explanation, to cover her own ignorance. The nearest simile she could think of, was herself, her situation; with school, Harry, Ron, and Malfoy. It all seemed to have reached an impasse, between the customary day of life, to something else. The looming war, the preparations and the waiting, as if she was floating in the air, waiting for the spell to ware off. She told him none of this.

"Right," he muttered, hand returning to his hair. "Perhaps so. But how will I grasp it if my mind is neither present nor gone. I mean, I must either be conscious or unconscious. I cannot simply be neither. And if I am, how will I know?"

"...I don't know."

He looked at her, his sky-grey eyes lingering as if in thought.

"Have you ever considered the moment between wake and sleep?"

"But how does that apply to objects?"

He nearly shouted it, thus was his frustration. They had once again returned to that question, and it shamed her that she did not know. She's also come to wonder why he cared, seeing as it was not pertinent to their classes.

Crossing the floor, she sat down across from him, turning the book so that she might read as well. He did not object to this, but then this was work; it was not as if they had sought each other's company.

"Objects without a fixed line must in some way be hexed," she muttered, as if stating the obvious would help.

"Yes."

"And when something is hexed, there is always a magical trace, something of the witches or wizards mind that lingers."

"Would you really call it their mind?" he objected, sharp as he was.

"One might as well. Mind, soul; there's really no difference. Not when it comes to this, anyway. So the unfixed line must be in some way bound up to the between-state the mind of the witch or wizard is in. Between transformation of matter. But of course, there must be some way of achieving this state without actually apparating or dissaparating. Like some matter-transformation by proxy..."

She spoke, trying to solve their problem dialectically, and he let her, his eyes lingering on her like an ever fixed mark. She leaned over the book, skimming through the passage, and barely registered it when he brushed her hair over her shoulder. Minutes passed, then she looked up.

"I still don't understand why you think it's necessary to know. Why don't you simply ask Professor McGonegol?"

"Why don't you?" he asked, and suddenly looked annoyed again.

"Perhaps I will..."

He closed the book, the sound made her jump in her seat. In that frantic, little movement, her leg brushed passed his; so solid, unmoving. It was only a leg, fabric against fabric, yet it caused all sorts of uncomfortable sensations; she pulled it away quickly, blushing.

"It's cold today."

And now she was discussing the weather. Ridiculous how Ron with his insensitivity had made her nothing but angry. While Malfoy, with complacent indifference, turned her into a blabbering idiot. She did not enjoy the transformation, this dulling of the mind, to sharpen the senses; the feel of him, the look of him, the warmth of his breath, the smell, so faint from across the table.

"Indeed it is."

He nodded, lapsing into thoughts once again. They sat in silence, his breath steady, rhythmically, as if it where part of some larger symphony. It did not ever change pace, it did not still. She asked him then.

"Why do you speak to me?"

"Excuse me?"

His breath caught for a moment.

"You have changed. Why?"

"I haven't changed."

He looked extremely affronted, as if to suggest such a thing was ludicrous, as if he did not know perfectly well himself that things had changed.

"Very well then," she said, too tired to quarrel.

"No, you listen!" and with that he rose. "You are clever, I'll concede to that. To seek your advise is logical. To seek your friendship is suicidal."

While he gathered his things, she rose too, feeling increasingly silly; to think, she'd been happy just a moment ago. She made to leave, seeking refuge in solitude, when his hand shot out, a steely grip holding her back. As he drew her close, all she could think was that she must not blush now, his chest was only a chest, warmth was only warmth, his smell was nothing special.

Habit had thought her to ignore it; this beauty, which at best was only a talent for cruelty; she would face it, she would concur it, and then, she thought, all would be well.

He looked at her, perhaps intending it as a warming, and then he let her go.

III

_February_

All had been neglected; homework, friends, her own needs, days and nights running shapelessly together, was it really morning already?

Ron had not moved, had not spoken, since last night, and though she dreaded to leave him, there where things that needed to be done. Harry asleep as well; no one noticed as she slipped away, though the door.

The corridors where empty, most people asleep still. The early light of dawn, so rarely to be seen, created a lethargic mood; the stillness of day such a contrast from the nights turmoil. Like an aftermath, she thought, as if the weather, and the sun, as it crossed the skies, really cared about such trivialities as almost loosing a friend. She felt empty, empty and guilty, for she knew she ought to feel something proper; despair, perhaps. A heartfelt sobbing that would not subside until he was awake, her friend whom she'd neglected, and all because he had not chosen her. What pettiness! But there was more to the guilt, she suspected Harry knew, as he leant forward and gave his theory; who the perpetrator might have been; Draco Malfoy. She did not believe him, and told him so at once. Yet her reasons, Malfoy's sudden change, or at least changeability, she could not share with them. Could there possibly be anything more tragic; having one friend suspecting another of murder. Possibly having one friend conspiring to murder another. Was he her friend at all? To be sure, she did not know.

He was in the library, poring over some book as usual. Was it desperation that made the foundation of her determination? All she wanted was an answer, to ease her guilt, to make it all a little better. It was within her rights to demand an answer from him, he owed her that much. And yet, approaching that figure, properly careworn now, his movements a little stiff, head drooping in exhaustion, she felt the first tendrils of fright. But there where something else, some other, more undefinable feeling. Her heart; aflutter! There was nothing for it, it was the only suitable word. But he had changed. It was all right to feel as she did, because he was no longer that cruel boy she'd known. And so, for her to make sure, as if this would justify her feelings, she would demand an answer. And then, perhaps, all would be well again.

Was there not a flicker of enthusiasm as he looked up, stirred by her approaching steps, his gaunt face almost cracking up in a smile. And as it lit his face, it was as if all the shadows and worries that marred it, left.

"Hermione."

He greeted her with a whisper, and as his face fell back in it's customary folds, she saw; he truly looked terrible.

"Have you been up all night?"

He simply shrugged.

"You don't look so good yourself."

She looked down, her hands clasped together, not daring to look at him any more.

"Ron..."

"I heard."

His voice, impassive, as if the life of a student was not so very interesting, not compared to this book, whatever it was.

"He almost died."

"But he didn't."

"No... he did not..."

And there it was, the indifference, an evidence of sorts. He was not concerned, it did not bother him, this; her friends life and death. And so, they could not be friends. To her dread, she felt her eyes watering, the nights turmoil catching up at last. All men dreaded the sight of a crying girl. Did he? Would he take his book and run? There was shame in this too, this display of emotion, of weakness they would call it; the display of a concerned friend. She found that her hands had turned to fist in her lap, but did not consider it until his hand found it's way, gently releasing one of them. It was soft, the skin not used to manual labour more heavy than holding a quill. She shuddered at the sudden contact.

"Why is it only me?"

All she could manage was a whisper, her voice almost breaking. He did not answer her, and so she spoke again.

"Did you poison Ron? Did you give Katie that necklace?"

Her hands felt empty as he suddenly withdrew. Looking at him through the blurring haze of tears, she saw his face was livid, raging, like a sun, she thought, like the flaming beauty of an angry sun. Then he left.

She did not follow him, all energy having been sucked out by her hand, it would seem, by his sudden withdrawal. Slumping together in her seat, she waited for the stream of tears to subside. No one came, the library would remain empty for a little while still. She would have plenty of time to think, but she found, perhaps for the first time, that she did not want to. He had made no reply, that was the mark of the guilty man. And she, more guilty still for not believing Harry, for not wanting to face the truth. Such vanity, she scoffed, his attentions having swayed her to no longer be able to distinguish right from wrong.

Rising at last, every limb was numb and slow. What now, what was she to do now? Standing by that window; feeling that all too familiar sensation of dread. If he would just come back, she caught herself thinking, if he would just come back and perhaps this time kiss her. Kiss her on the face, it did not matter where, his coarse hair brushing past her temple; it was throbbing! And then she could finally put away this feeling, this sensation of solemnity; walk the corridors and streets once more, look into peoples faces and not feel ashamed.

She opened the window, a sudden need for the fresh wintry air, biting against her exposed skin, the tear tracks down her cheeks. The cold cleared her mind. Sucking it in, leaning out, as though it was something she could chase, she felt the calm returning, piece by piece.

Below the ground was glistening, damp; it would be spring once more. In a week, perhaps, it would all return and pass and move around in this endless circle with no regard for either of them. And the leaves would be green like the sea; a plunge then, into the waves?

"Hermione?"

And then it was her turn to seem frail and small, distinguishing.

"What have you done to me?"

She did not need to turn, to look upon his face, to know it was him. There was a presence, she could sense it, hear his feet crossing the floor. Leaning across her, his robes brushing past, and closing the window in a determined gesture, she might have expected a little tenderness from him. But when he spoke, it was in anger.

"_I_? What have I done to you?"

Like a hiss, like the hiss of a snake. She made no reply.

"It is you that have..."

But his voice trailed of. Too much of a coward, she supposed, to tell the truth.

"It is I that have what?"

Looking at him then, she found he was angry. But also dejected, evasive, maybe frightened. His mouth opened, then the soft sound of his tongue, sticking to the roof of his mouth, as if trying to make out a sound, then closing again without having uttered a word. He merely stared at her, his gaze almost hateful. And then, grabbing her shoulders, hard, desperate, he pressed her up against a shelf. She was trapped against his chest, heart fluttering wildly, not just due to fear. It was then, unable to move, the shelf at her back, his body pressing against hers, that she made a sound; helplessness drew from her something like a sigh, breathy and warm as it fluttered across his face. His body tensed, fingers clasping her stronger still. And then; he tilted her face up, kissing her nose, the coarseness of his chin just as she'd imagined, before parting her lips, rather violently, with his tongue. And still she did not know, she could not decide, all these sensations distracting her; it was painful, it was wonderful, it was wrong; and she could not decide, as he plunged deeper inside her, if she wanted it.

His hands, trailing from her shoulders, made some inexpert fumbling, before finding the hem of her skirt. As they moved up between her thighs, she bit his lip, but weather in defence of playfulness, she could not tell. He made a noise, a quiet murmur, before delving into her mouth again, hard, determined, as his hand reached it's destination. Dragging her fingers through his hair; so long now, she noted, and then, sighing as if disappointed, as his fingers found their way inside her.

And he was all warmth, the taste of him, the feel of him. She found a sensation inside herself, as if all the sighs she'd held back, now built up to a curious pressure in her throat.

She heard him murmuring, a whisper, but could not make out the words. And then; the warmth was gone; his hair between her fingertips, his tongue on hers, his fingers, his chest trapping her against the shelf. He whispered again.

"Someone's coming."

His voice breathy, panting a little, his hair dishevelled, cheeks blushed. So beautiful, she thought, and yet, what had she done. As he turned and stalked away, leaving her once more, this was all that remained; his taste in her mouth, and the notion of shame; what had she done, what had she done.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three - Days of Spring

I

_March_

It descended upon them fast; the leaves, the birds, the warm sun, though it still set early. As the snow melted, the country shimmered, glowing, radiating, calling people out, into the park, where laughter and talk could be heard from inside the castle walls, everyone sighing at the beauty of spring, as they walked passed the windows. It seemed distant, a world made solely for those whom could be considered joyous, as she had come to consider happiness more beautiful still – the happiness that only freedom from passion and disturbance could bring, the sense that ones affairs depended on no one. Until that moment, avoidance would be best; to skulk the corridors, and watch the world through tainted glass.

She had kissed Draco Malfoy, yet the sun still rose, homework continued to flood in, conversations where had, laughter and quarrels and sleep, the mundanity of life pressing on. When Harry and Ron greeted her with smiles she was shocked. But they new nothing, nobody but her and Malfoy did, a dark secret only confirmed by fleeting glances. Once the taste of him had dissipated, there was nothing left at all, no tangible evidence; all was as it ought to be. No more violent joys, but quiet pleasures, for in that state of equilibrium, there is no pain, yes, surely absence of pain must be wiser than the pursuit of pleasure.

And yet, Malfoy had brought her no pleasure, no violent joy. There had only been confusion, need, and in the end, shame. Looking through the window, she could not see the world outside, only her own unfocused reflection, her face now as pale as his. A weariness had settled. Ron often teased, but they where worried, she could tell, although Harry was absorbed in an obsession of his own. He had reported that Malfoy spent frequently more and more time in the Unknowable Room, which would explain why he was not here, in between the shelves as she'd grown so accustomed to seeing him.

And in the corner – she could see it from her place by the window – was the shelf against which she'd been trapped, the books pushed a little further inn. Evidence, she thought, yes, there is evidence. It had happened! No more than a week ago, he had pushed her against that shelf. Did it matter, did she miss it? There had been violence, but had there been joy? For a person such as herself, always in the pursuit of knowledge, not knowing was the most terrible state of all.

In her limp hand, there was a pamphlet: _Common Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them_; she had already achieved apparition, and that was the problem; nothing had changed. There had been no sudden insight, no striking light of clarity, only the physical movement from the one place to the other. Scoffing, she let it drop, fall to the floor, while it flapped it's pages feebly.

"Musing between the shelves?" he asked as he rounded the corner, with a smile that was not a leer, but, she liked to believe, genuine kindness.

"Draco?"

"Good, you recognize me."

Such was his turnabout, she had no words, but watched him in silence as he bent down and picked up the fallen pamphlet, placing it gently on the desk with those delicate fingers, now smutty with some sort of grease.

"What have you been doing," she asked, a little perturbed by his sudden change.

"Come with me."

And there was a glint in his eyes, such as she had not seen in a long time.

"What for?"

"Just come."

She followed, leaving her books scattered across the desk, trusting it to Madame Pince to see to their safety.

He was here, again, he had returned. And yet, as she followed him out of the room, the moment of their shared passion, seemed as lost to her as it had done before his arrival. The books where still indented, but there was nothing, no trace in his demeanor that spoke of it. It was not to be mentioned.

He seemed almost happy, alarmingly so, a spring to his gait that she had not seen before. He proceeded her out of the library, towards the stairs, though not speaking of their destination, and she was not so foolish as to ask.

His walk may be vigorous, but his face seemed drawn, his eyes tinged red as he shot her a fleeting glance. A tongue flickered out to lick his lips, before opening them, reminding her ever more of his wolfish appearance.

"How is apparition faring. You will take the test next month?"

"I have managed twice, so I assume it will be fine..."

"Good, good," and he nodded, as if enthused by the news, his whole mood seeming ever more erratic. He was not his normal, suave, sometimes cruel and proud self, but then he had not been for a very long time.

Malfoy led her through the castle, and as they walked through the seventh floor, she realized where they where headed. Like a striking sensation, a bolt of insight, nothing more delightful, and yet it was followed by confusion, because she could not grasp what he wanted from her, why she was here.

Reaching the tapestry, he turned, his hair falling in front of his eyes, as he suddenly placed his hands on her shoulders. Like last time, she thought, like last time! But there was not to be any resumption of the kiss. He simply made her come to a stop, back against the image of trolls and ballet teachers.

"Wait here."

She only nodded, without questions, obeying his every command. It was only in the furthest reaches of her mind, that this raised a red flag. But there was nothing to it; she was here now, and the dread of inconsistency kept her there, rooted to the floor, the gruff feel of the tapestry at her back. He returned before she could think better of it.

"Come, come along," and he grabbed her hand, pulling her with, as if mere words would not be enough to persuade her.

Sure enough, there where a door, where moments before the wall had been smooth, substantial. He opened it, motioning for her to enter first, the proper gentleman and all that.

It was not the room she'd seen before, but altogether unrecognizable; to think, after all these years, magic could still dazzle her. The vastness of the room was that of a cathedral, casting echos for every step she took. When he closed the door, she thought the bang would generate a landslide of all the forlorn and forgotten objects, stacked in precarious, roof-high piles. There where cages, books, brooms, all manner of things, both broken and intact, and all, she suspected, illegal in some way.

"You have been here before."

His whisper carried, hissing through the room, thrown back from the walls.

"What sort of place is this?"

"Hidden objects I expect. I needed something, and this was the room that opened."

"That is what the room does," she conceded, rather dryly.

"Although, I am not using it to train an illegal army."

She did not rise to the bait, not trusting his chirpy tone.

"What are you using it for."

His eyes, dark in the dim light, flickered to meet hers, but did not hold her gaze.

"I'm not using it, I happened to come across it, and found something that might help us."

"Us?"

"Yes, you know, with matter-transformation."

There was a clang, distant, as if something had been dropped in the corridor outside. She could see his neck, the muscles in his back visibly tensing, then he resumed in between the shelves. Casual, relaxed, peering over his shoulder to see if she were following, which she was. She did not bother asking what he'd found, having almost given up the notion of ever fully understanding what happened. A lot of things where discovered as a mistake, and the greatest magical minds could not make out how. But it would seem Malfoy still persisted, and she did not want to be the one to dissuade him.

"It's just around here."

Guiding her, with a firm grip on her shoulder, they came to a stop, the silence suddenly intrusive, as the echoes of their feet died away. Having moved between piles of rubble, they stood before yet another pile, Hermione utterly perplexed, searching for this hidden treasure that made him so exited.

"It's a vanishing cabinet!"

True enough, she saw it then, the dark, burly thing that had once been placed in the second floor corridor, now broken and stowed away. Mold seemed to have gripped it's surface, eating away at the wood. It's door was askew, the whole thing sagging; it was no longer of any use.

"And what would you want with it?"

It seemed incomprehensible to him, that she did not understand. Standing next to it, he placed a palm on his rotten surface.

"We might try and repair it."

"Whatever for?"

"You do wish to understand, do you not? You do want to learn the secret of Corporis?"

It did not matter what he said, whatever eloquent phrases he had prepared to persuade her. The books would linger, scattered and forlorn at her desk, she would not return to them, not today. He had asked her to join him, to seek out this secret. And how was it that only a discriminate, cruel man understood this need; the beauty that was knowledge. Yes, yes, she would join him in this futile search for light.

"I've brought the book."

He held it up, the discolored pages flapping feebly, and she smiled.

"Well then, let us get to work."

II

_April_

_...At the moment of touch, there is no power whatever, to make any affirmation; there is no leisure; reasoning upon the vision is for afterward. For that which transfigures the soul, is that which it is to see, just as it is by the sun's own light that we see the sun... _

"I think, perhaps, we are not meant to understand."

"How else would one go about mending it, then? There must be a way."

He let the book fall to the floor, ignoring her look of discontent at this manhandling of a book. Crouching on the ground, his back against a divan of faded, red silk, he buried his face in his hand, an act of desperation, so close to the surface these days. Something stirred, her heart perhaps, his pathetic display triggering her sympathy.

"We will figure it out," she offered, softly. "The book says something about reasoning upon the vision afterward."

"And...?"

"And we have both apparated. If we only gave it a little time-"

"We don't have time!"

His snappish remark resounded through the lofty room, causing her to stir, nervously. Perhaps she was afraid. The tendrils of unease had begun to get a firmer grip. But her approbation was nothing to his, as his shoulder's shook, not just in anger, his eyes filling with dread. She wanted to comfort him, she wanted him to comfort her, and when had this happened, this dependance, this _regard_. Like poison, seeping through her veins. She'd had a chance to remove this disease. In stead, she had left it, encouraged it; now she was here, slumped on a cold stone floor, tired, afraid, and utterly devoid of answers, enduring this verbal abuse.

"I am sorry."

"No matter."

And then there were silence. He plucked on his shirtsleeves, thinking, or perhaps just restless, looking at that cabinet that still confounded them, it's workings beyond their ability to comprehend. But they lived in a school after all, and Hermione did not understand why they did not simply beg a teacher for help. But he said that would not do, they would have to solve the riddle themselves.

"It seems to me..."

"Yes?"

"Well, if we could only find a method of reaching this clarity... how does Landin continue?"

He picked it up, though hesitant, as if this where all to slow a process for him, placing it in his lap and read on.

_...And with that, the stir of recognition in the objects depicted to the eyes, the presentation of what lies in it's true form, and so are called a recollection of the truth – the very experience out of which love rises, truth and love always united... _

Truly Landin was the most obscure scholar, this did not make any sense at all. Cursing the eccentricity of former magical professors, she rose, brushing dust of her robes in a practiced movement.

"That's it for now, I think. I have to get back."

And right enough. It was the quiddich finale, and Ron would never forgive her if she should be absent. But more than that, she was sick of this room, oppressing even in it's vastness. And she was tired of his moods, of her own sensations, of this entrapment that caused nothing but worry. Had she only been able to join in the joy of spring, but she was not. Having retreated into the darkness, she found she needed to visit the light, if only for one short afternoon. But it would seem Malfoy would have none of that.

"Where to?"

"The match. It's today."

And then, it was there once more, the wolf-face, his eyes hardening.

"Don't leave."

Phrased as a question, yet she suspected her own choice did not much matter to him. She turned, in defiance, only taking time to cast an angry look from over her shoulder. How had it come to this, this silly abuse and quarrel. They had not touched each other since, they had not kissed. This was all that was left, and so, why was she not able to leave him. Why did she not press past, as he got up from the floor, halting her progress with forceful determination.

She recalled she'd though, many months ago now, that they both lacked a clarity of purpose to ever change their relationship, too comfortable in their roles as enemies. The animosity was still present, as he gripped her shoulders, holding her back with force. Having always considered herself strong, she was mortified to find herself crying, being so furious with him, and with herself also for this abominable weakness. He eased his grip, but still held her fast. Shaking them, her head bobbing back and forth on her shoulders, he asked her.

"Why are you crying?"

And how could he ask that, he, who must surely feel it to, the desperation entrapping them, ashamed at themselves, at the judgment of their former selves.

"Don't you know?"

And it was her turn to be valiant; desperation bubbling to the surface, kissing him, hard and fast, before drawing away with the mortifying sensation, that perhaps he did not share her feelings at all, and that she was indeed alone.

"Yes."

His voice was gruff. She could not properly comprehend as to what he was referring. But then his fingers tightened once more, turning her, pressing her down. Her back was meet with a soft surface. The silk, red and faded, enveloping her startled figure, as her heart pounded, hard, fast, painful, as if there was no longer room for it in her treacherous chest.

His lips on her, biting, sucking, desperate as he forced his tongue inside her; warm an slippery muscle, hard, yet coated in softness. But as soon as he'd arrived, he drew back again, his mouth proceeding to her neck, as if he were in a great hurry.

"If I asked you," she panted, fingers gripping, clawing, at his back. "Would you let me go?"

His lips only let up long enough to answer her, a harsh, hasty sound.

"No."

No, no, he would not let her go. In a way it was appeasing. She was no choice, no call, and so, she would not shoulder the responsibility. It was a meager sort of comfort.

Soon he had divested her of her pants, her shirt drawn up, his hands moving frantically, as though they lacked the time to do things properly; his sloppiness annoyed her. But then, trapped, in his arms as he dipped, plunged; down, down, with a profound sight, a shudder; so selfish, self serving, his eyes pressed shut. There was pain between her legs, sharp like that of a poke, like the stab of a knife, but then rapidly subsiding, and she felt herself grow wetter. He seemed to harden inside her; to think it was not as she imagined at all, only a dull sort of pleasure, not the violent joy of which she'd been told. And yet, without thought, her breath quickened, as if she was running, as if her body was filled with air and only air, floating upwards; Draco on top of her, pinning her down. And then; the sensation grew, slowly, and it too became sharp, sharp in a dull sense, demanding her attention, drawing ragged breaths from her mouth, his name on her lips. She had not intended to speak it at all, so softy, so affectionately, and looked away, pressing her eyes closed.

"Draco..."

Tasting the word, his breath in her ear, and he kissed it, his fingers in her hair; stroking, tugging, as he hissed in her ear.

"Does it feel like this with Weasly?"

"..no...no."

She lacked the will to tell him that she'd never, that such feelings did not exist between them, also she sensed that he would not listen, his fingers trickling across her breasts, kissing them, his lips so soft, almost chaste, adoring, against her skin.

As his pace quickened, she lifted her thighs, entwining her legs behind his back, as if it were the most natural thing, as if she'd done it before. He buried his face in her neck, where she kept it firmly in place, her hands in that hair that was too long, and so very pale, shining in the dimness; he was too beautiful for her with his golden hair. Asking him to look up, and to her surprise, he acquiesced; his eyes not just gray, but darker, wider, his face sickly, but beautiful still.

"I think, if you should leave me alone, I would be happy."

"I don't care about that."

His head dipping again, as if fleeing from her sight, he kissed her neck, and the sensations that had been steadily building, broke, flooded, as if poring, and she sighed, her breathing hitched, as she came, and he soon after, collapsing on top of her. Softly, he whispered.

"I don't care, I don't care."

And truly he didn't, it would not matter to him at all, and in truth it did not matter much to her either.

III

_May_

'I love you, I love you but I am closing; this damnable connection, which at best is only lust. I love you', for how else could she identify it. Not pleasurable, nor joyous; closing, withdrawing further into the darkness. But at times he was tender, stroking her hair back, fingertips across her cheek, long and wondrous stares, and for a fleeting moment, she was not alone. Then he withdrew, into the Room of Requirement, closing, like a fist, and she did not posses the force necessary to pry it open.

Harry knew as well, hunched over the Marauders Map, his wand-tip following Malfoy around the castle, muttering to himself, neglecting all else. And then there was the accident, or was it an attack. She had swooned, when they told her, as things blackened, gripping the window-sill, and she thought, she had know, she had known; something dreadful would happen. But Malfoy was fine, Harry unrepentant, the teachers furious; her hands would not stop shaking. It was not until he was up and about again, his hands closing around her as he pulled her to investigate the vanishing cabinet and the red silken divan once more, that she felt there was warmth still, and strength in those fingers entrapping her own.

But surely life was not meant to be this hard, so difficult to endure, happiness entirely reliant on weather he would seek her out or not. For that had become their habit. If it suited, he would seek her out, sitting underneath that library-window, and taking her with him to work. Her eyes fixed on the shelves, while feeling the panic of the approaching exams and the thought that he might not show. But he did, and she could breath, her hands still again. He smiled as he sat down, letting his hand squeeze her's in chaste affection that no one saw.

Did she love him then, was this love; his distance and unease and fleeting smiles.

"I think I understand."

"Excuse me?"

His eyes alight, this must have been a good day, his genuine smile lending such softness to his features. He looked handsome, but she would not dare tell him.

"The book, Landin, I think I understand."

Her own enthusiasm spiked, as she sorted through the books, trying to find the right one, fingers trembling with the excitement.

"Well, what did I tell you, you only need to let it sink in. What page?"

But he only pulled the book out from her grip, skimming through it with ruff impatience, his mouth sometimes muttering words she did not quite grasp, before finding the right page, at the very end of the book.

_...For that which transfigures the soul, is that which it is to see, just as it is by the sun's own light that we see the sun..._

"Don't you feel like he could have explained the book on one page?"

He snickered.

"Precisely. I don't think theory is necessary. At least not in it's own right. I mean, it's only useful afterward, as trying to explain a phenomenon. But this-" and he read again the passage, "-shows that we can't see change, because it's not physical. Or at least, not relevant. You need to understand what it is you're changing. And as long as will live in a material world, we by necessity already know."

Certainly Ron would never have been able to hold such a speech, or grasp such lofty matters. But she did, only it did not enthuse her.

"So it's all been wasted then? All this time."

His face fell, but he persisted in his new-found cheer.

"No, not wasted. Listen."

_...And with that, the stir of recognition in the objects depicted to the eyes, the presentation of what lies in it's true form, and so are called a recollection of the truth..._

It did not really matter. Had she not given it up month ago, only persisting for his sake. And now he had found an answer that satisfied him, or perhaps he'd simply grasped something that she did not. He was contented, at least, and through him, maybe she would reach equilibrium as well.

"So you have mended the cabinet then?"

He nodded.

"Today."

"So you don't need my help any more."

It was a fickle thing to ask, as if testing the waters, posing a query there were no easy answer to.

"I suppose not," he replied, ponderously, his eyes flickering. "But don't you want to see it, don't you want to try? We can go anywhere we like."

And for the life of her, she could not make him out.

"Really?"

"Of course, come!"

But it would not matter where they went, everything just a stall, until she asked him, until she demanded he profess his true allegiance. Surly she would ask, they must both have to stand their ground in this matter that was so much larger than them both. She had chosen her fate month ago, years really, and love or lust or an aptness for transfiguration, would not change it. Worse still, for him, having been brought up to his fate. And still he proposed they would leave, just leave, never acknowledging that the one might have to kill the other.

"Don't worry, will come back tonight. You can take your exams."

She shook her head, though not in defiance.

"It's... it's not about that at all."

"Well, what then?"

"I don't know."

How all-encompassing those words where, and how very frustrating, not understanding, not knowing, feeling only this dull sort of need that was mingled with pain and shame.

"You don't want to? We can go anywhere, to Paris, to Marrakesh, hell, to Mount Everest if you want."

"Yes."

"Mount Everest?"

"No. Yes, I mean, I'd like to go."

And so, progress would have to be made one little step at a time. There was no admission, and so there could be no forgiveness. She had kissed him, she had been kissed, perhaps there was more, but she was blind, she could not see. A between state, as that of Corporis; there could be no understanding, because she was too close too it all; she had lived, not analyzed from afar. And so, she realized, it was always an impossible task. The attempt was all. And during this short moment, it was everything.

A war, and in the middle of it all, lovers. She smiled at him, genuinely this time, and said yes once more.

"We'll come back tonight. There's something I need to do tomorrow."

"Sure," and she nodded, but did not ask him what it were.

Was it weakness, this evasion? Did not she possess the right to be happy; a final day of forgetfulness before it all broke loose. A day in the sun with ordinary people, or perhaps, as he'd proposed, the very top of the world, ignoring the pitiless cries of those who would try to tear them apart. It was not impossible, he had asked her after all.

Letting the book slam shut upon Landin's words, her act of defiance was to ignore them, the notion that love could only rise out of truth, truth and love always united. But when had lovers ever been truthful. It was a deceiving need to be better, to be deserving, when deep down, one knew that one had never been so good, or so cruel, as to earn the affliction of love.

_A/N: The saga of Harry Potter is well and truly over, and now this story is completed too. I thank Plotinus for his lines of obscurity, that I have molded to fit my own purpose. Also thank you to those who have read and reviewed._


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